


a broccoli-free household

by nongender (orgel)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 01:10:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orgel/pseuds/nongender
Summary: Johnny hums from across the table. He finished his plate a while ago, probably while he was cleaning the kitchen, because dealing with Ten is a multitask within itself. “Eat,” he says, chin in palm. “You can sleep when you’re done.”Ten huffs. He doesn’twantto sleep.





	a broccoli-free household

**Author's Note:**

> *throws 800 words worth of unedited word vomit on the tl & calls it stress relief* take this

Two times. That’s five spanks, maybe ten if he keeps going. 

“But I‘m tired,” Ten whines, prodding at a lone broccoli stem with the prongs of his fork. He’s been sitting there for at least fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and its all because he didn’t want to eat his dinner; boiled chicken, rice, and a bit of broccoli on the side. He likes chicken and he definitely likes rice, but— _broccoli_.

 _Blegh_.

He just doesn’t understand why he has to eat dinner at this very moment, when there’s a plethora of warm blankets and a Steven Universe marathon waiting just a few feet away. That’s what he wants; to sit on Johnny’s lap and cuddle, relax, nap even, and live his happy, healthy, broccoli-free life. And he’s been behaving all day (all day, which excludes the tantrum he had this morning when their plans for a picnic had to be cancelled due to the rain—totally justified) so there’s absolutely no reason he should be forced into eating right now. It’s sadistic, that’s what it is. 

Johnny hums from across the table. He finished his plate a while ago, probably while he was cleaning the kitchen, because dealing with Ten is a multitask within itself. “Eat,” he says, chin in palm. “You can sleep when you’re done.”

Ten huffs. He doesn’t _want_ to sleep. 

“I’m never going to be done,” he grumbles, pout worsening. “I’m never going to be done because there's broccoli on my plate and I don't _want_ to eat the broccoli because broccoli is _disgusting_.”

Johnny snorts. “Is it now? I thought you loved broccoli.”

Ten scrunches his nose at the concept. Who likes broccoli? He can't recall the last time he met anyone that actually enjoyed eating it, or any vegetable for that matter, and couldn't imagine what type of heathen would dare to call it their favorite food. The texture, the ultimate blandness of it all—was gross. Blasphemy. His expression must speak for itself—scrunched nose and pursed lips—because it seems Johnny gets his point even without him having to verbalize it. 

“Alright, come here.”

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

Ten watches with a careful eye as Johnny pushes himself away from the table, chair and all, and stands, shrinking into his own seat on instinct. Damn it. He’s really in for it now, and all over a few pieces of broccoli.

“Wait, look,” Ten stabs a broccoli piece with his fork, lifting it into Johnny’s view. “Look—see? I’m eating.” And then he shoves it right into his mouth, fighting the urge to fucking barf on the spot. It’s like eating grass or seaweed or— _dirt_ , evan. 

Johnny’s already at his side by the time he’s finished chewing, skeptical, if not a little amused. “You’re a brat,” he says, as if Ten doesn’t know this already. “A stubborn, sneaky brat.” 

Sneaky? How? He ate the broccoli, didn’t he? It’s not like he shoved it under his tongue or fed it to the dog or Lucas or something. 

“I’m not a brat,” he says with a full mouth. Yeah, speaking with food in his mouth might be a little rude and definitely disgusting, but it doesn’t come close to the vileness that comes with actually digesting broccoli. “I’m—I’m a—” 

Johnny lifts a brow. “You’re a what?” 

“A _good boy_.”

Yeah. He is a good boy. 

“You’re a good boy,” Johnny echoes, albeit a little doting. And then he pets Ten a little, who’s already preening under the praise, which—yes, thank you very much, he knew that already. “Just as much as you are a stubborn one. Swallow.” 

Ten frowns. Johnny waits. 

Fine. He can’t argue with that one. 

What he can do, though, is nuzzle into Johnny’s touch, which is exactly what he does, eyelids fluttering, toes curling into the fuzziest pair of socks he owns. Now _this_ —this something he can get behind. 

“Johnny,” Ten mumbles, grabbing for the hem of his boyfriend’s sweater. “Daddy, I—“ 

“Hm? What is it, baby?” It’s a little harder to focus on Johnny’s words when he’s being lulled into such a...soft headspace. So, without saying much, Ten pushes his face into Johnny’s chest, hiding. 

He feels Johnny sit down before he hears it, the slide of the chair against the wooden floors, and lets him guide him into his lap. He’s straddling him now, face still hidden, but a lot warmer than he was before. 

“I don’t want broccoli,” he says a few minutes late, voice muffled by the fabric of Johnny’s shirt. He’s chewing on it, so what. “I want Daddy.” 

Johnny hums, contemplating. Or maybe he’s annoyed. Whichever. 

“Two more,” is what he gets, rubbing Ten’s back when he starts to whine. “Hey, hey, none of that. It’s the broccoli or the spankings.”

Oh. The spanks. He forgot about those. He must be on twenty-something at this point. 

“Fine,” Ten grumbles, chewing angrily at the fabric of Johnny’s shirt. He should tear it, that’s what he should do. It would be worth the twenty-something spanks, especially if it meant he got out of eating the stupid broccoli. “It’s not gonna make me happy.”

Johnny’s smiling. He knows he is. 

 _Hmph._  

 

 


End file.
